


Prompt: A poem

by chels0792



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 07:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18441644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chels0792/pseuds/chels0792
Summary: "I loathe the way my heart pounds when the letter falls out onto the wood. But tea can soothe an upset stomach, and if that fails I have medicine in the cabinet. And if that fails, I have a handle of cinnamon whiskey in the bottom drawer and Francis on speed-dial."





	1. 1

America has no old buildings. America is a land of space and expansion; a land of blue sky and green grass and that jeweled blue ocean water, a place where summer and autumn and winter pass hands through the year to spring. There are no old buildings in America, and there is no truly old money nor old family blood—not any lines which originated in America, anyway. Not without dark, soil--rich native blood. I wonder if he remembers his first languages.

 

America is chaotic with its newness, albeit in a way that charms an old soul. It’s a lively chaos, a cheerful madness which consumes the modern heart in heat and light—and war, when the time arises. The Americans aren’t old enough yet to have a culture, and they're vicious with the thirst for recognition amongst their elders, many of whom crossed these pre-bordered lands long before modern earth was a dream conceived.

 

The earth predates us all. No, there are no old buildings in America--but there are old rivers and faded gorges and mountain ranges that ache with their own private memories. There are old trees over the earth, even in America—and he leans a shoulder to an old pine now, and needles litter the grass. The trunk is thick and scarred. That tree may be older than he is, and I’m sure that thought has crossed his meticulous mind.

 

The air smells sweet here with sap and honey and wildflowers, and something I still don’t recognize. There are bees nearby, and the buzzing is a soothing, blue-summer sound. He’s laughing, and that, too, is a summer sound: bright like a crisp crimson morning, bursting like ripe cherries.

 

He’s developed a cloying nature, and it does no justice to the thoughtful boy I used to know. I wonder how many centuries before the final scraps of his original nature have left him in entirety.

 

We’ve never discussed his ancestry, besides a few short conversations when he was still quite small. I can never decide how much of his land is in him—it must be more than I and my own. The green of needles and grass and sharp, thin seedlings is so green; and the trunk so richly brown; the clouds celestial white; and his eyes are so very blue, and his skin such a pure, abnormal shade of tan. His ancestry is Germanic--Swedish, I think, Finnish--so the bronze must come from the land and his natives. And the sun that loves him. Whatever it is, it’s beautiful. It’s unique.

 

My land is hardly infertile, but here there is a special sort of satisfaction in plucking an apple from the tree or a juicy berry from the vine. This land nurtures. This land loves life, and so does he. He’s a noisy fellow, obnoxiously so, social to a fault. He’s made a friend with every one of us in turn, I think, which is an enormous accomplishment.

 

He’s hung an arm from a branch. His shadow lies flat on the hill, but his companion’s shadow  eclipses him and reaches for me. There is magic here, a dangerous and alluring black magic the likes of which I don’t see fit to use. Magic is a natural thing. It’s rude to disrupt the natural energies of the universe the way he does.

 

He doesn’t know I’m here, but by the crawl of this black shadow, his companion does. I don’t much care. I’m not here for him.

 

He looks so unnatural in this place. His palette is all whitish and wrong, his language is guttural. He's entirely out of rhythm with the bees and the living wind. He comes from a land without this kind of harmony, the kind that lives on the surface and not deep in coal mines. I wouldn’t have realized if I hadn’t seen him here, like this, side by side in this quiet green dale. 

 

I hate that he’s here, standing beside that old brown pine in a casual sweater like he thinks he belongs. He knows better. Who wears a scarf that thick in May?

 

He’s lifted himself up into that tree now, and sunlight looks good on him. Always has. It’s his personality. He’s sunny from the inside out, and in times when I imagine he shouldn’t be, the effect can be unsettling. He takes with an ease that can only be natural, and I wonder from time to time what part I had in making that nastiness in him. I struggle with fate, but I don’t think he does. Jealous as I am, I know I should be grateful he’s never bared that manic smile at me.

 

Sunlight looks good on him, but these cool green shadows look good on me. Dense grass springs back from the footfall. I know how to hide in a glen, long’s I only breathe when leaves brush their branches and needles fall onto the roots.

 

Their voices are low, but I can hear them now. I wish they were shouting, or at least talking business--but that’s too much for hope to deliver.

 

I hear dinner plans. They speak casually, but we usually do when the public aren’t listening. They’re using human names, and I hate the name I gave him sitting flat on that meaty tongue. Witchcraft is a powerful force. I knew I was right to keep his second name to myself, safe and secret and locked away. He can’t be trusted with it yet.

 

This is all the proof I need to keep it sealed away forever. Safe. It’s all he’s let me keep. I miss the new world. My arms ache where I used to hold him, when everything was lighter than it is today. I miss the wide blue cut of his eyes and the calm he had when he was young, before he had any reason to be anxious or nearly this paranoid. I miss wrapping him up in my cloak and knowing that I’d given him some peace. I miss reading him stories and telling him about the sea. Maybe I told him too much.

 

I’m invisible long as I want to be here in the brush. That evil white thing has hands on him now, and the dirt below me is turning to mud. And I’m guilty, because I’m pining after a thing that was never mine. I can give him a hot meal, I can give him a safe bed, I can give him whatever knowledge he’ll ask—much as he doesn’t like it. But I can’t give him this.

 

I told him too many stories. I didn’t mean to make him fall in love with every degenerate corner of this world. I’m angry, and I’m happy if he’s happy, but why like this? I’m heartbroken, I’m bursting with it. I know he knows better.

 

There’s a moment on the breeze and he’s disappeared behind the pine and I know what he’s doing. And there’s a sigh and he comes back into view with his cheeks pink and his hand over his mouth—but he’s laughing down at the ground, at least, so he’s enjoying himself.

 

There’s another moment, and just before the kiss I can see the way that foul silver thing looks at him, and I’m itching down toward my boot and blade. Barring none that I couldn’t kill either one of them, I could make a hell of a scene.

 

The wind shifts and there’s a twinkle to my right, and the lustrous flash of a wing and a murmur.

 

So I obey the wood and I look at him, try to really look at those bright summer eyes and the dimple in his cheek. He’s looking up, he’s smiling a little shy, and it only serves to make him more handsome. They’re standing close, and he’s opened his arms, and he’s got hands on as well. He’s whispering so low I can’t hear him, biting his lip. He’s tempting him like he knows what he’s doing.

 

But I don’t care how much he wants this, because America is too young and too cheerful for something that grisly and bitter. I don’t care if that monster’s holding him and kissing him like a lover, because America is too wild for something that crushes everything it loves without restraint.

 

I don’t care if he’s letting Ivan open his coat, God help me. I don’t care if Ivan is laying him down on a clean patch of his own grass like he’s made of something fragile and precious, because Alfred was unguarded to me first and he’s precious to me most and he damn well knows it.

 

He’s all eyes closed and teeth gritted and clutching with both hands. I’ll duck my head and go, because I know that look and I know he doesn’t want me to see it.

 

The fairy follows me out into the sun, and I wonder as heat covers me if Alfred knows what he’s giving when he lets Ivan lay him down. There’s a chance I’ll never know. That’s fine. That’s not what’s bothering me.

 

At least I can take comfort from that look on his face. I make it myself; I know I do. Francis has told me, crudely. And I’d never tell a soul—least of all Francis—but it’s been worth the effort.

 

It's an exhilarating surrender, laying back and letting another person invite themselves in like that. Those first seconds exposed feel like dread, until the moment passes and then a man can feel the love. That first second of—whatever it is—of not-hurt can change more than an evening.

 

I hate myself a little for passing that weakness onto him. I’d apologize if I knew how, or if I thought he’d listen. I’ve no right to take that from him. It’s something I don’t think he can find anywhere else right now, though I’d bid my blood otherwise. This is how the cards fell.

 

There must be a lake near us, murmurs the fairy, because emotions run through me strong and rich, and that’s what water does to an Englishman. I’m lucky I’m not walking under the moon.

 

I can hear shouting from the bottom of the hill where the rest of us are sitting. We predictably sit either too close to someone or very far away from everyone. We’re sick of each other and we need someone to talk to. We pretend it’s all very simple in the end, and we rarely pry into each other’s private affairs, unless I think I need to. What’s the point? Nothing lasts forever, and we’ve got no one but each other anyway. 

 

I’m beginning to realize that forever itself may not be a very long time, and I feel for a second as the picnic comes into view that I might be growing up after all.

 

Francis catches my eye. The sun and wind lift his hair, and I realize that might just be something like in a man. A little sun, a little free.

 

He’s one of the few who sit far apart today. I like to sit beside him, because it’s the loneliest of us who need a companion the most these days, and today I have some extra strength. The fairy sits on my shoulder, a reassuring flicker in the corner of my eye, and holds my ear with a tiny hand. 

 

I hate that I know what he sees when he looks at me, and that he knows me that well.

 

He says, “I told you not to follow him,” and I pick a yellow flower to roll between my fingers.

 

When I say, “He’s letting him,” Francis doesn’t look surprised.

 

The wind wants to carry away the weight on my shoulders, so I close my eyes and let the land whisper its secrets in my ear; secrets in black soil and old trees and bright people who are still new, for all their efforts otherwise. The air is sweet, and I can smell yeast from the bread someone brought to share, and the sun is warm and welcoming here. This land doesn’t know how to turn a traveler back to the cruelty of the sea. He never has. For all his faults, America means well. Or he did, once, and maybe he will again someday.

 

When I lay down—to feel the rhythm in the earth, to feel her breathing—Francis sits above me and lets the sun rinse him clean.

 

I tell him, “He’s stronger than I was,” and he looks at me like he’s never seen me.

 

I can say, “I think he’s all right,” and I know I mean it because the fairy doesn’t chastise me for lying.

 

I can feel Francis watching me, watching my face. Eventually I’ll ask the hundred questions bouncing around in my stomach like butterflies, but for now he’s got that sad look he’s been wearing this last century and it worries me. Even his smiles these days are stained with some deep sorrow he won’t share, and it’s been long enough that it’s frightening me. I hope at least he’s speaking with someone his own age, someone who he doesn’t think needs him to smile.

 

I think again back to the way Ivan held him. Like a lover, like a man. Like a man holding a thing he can’t believe he’s holding, kissing a thing he can’t believe he’s kissing. If Alfred laid down underneath me, I think I’d hold him the same way.

 

I say, “Francis, I think I’m all right,” and the fairy is silent.

 

There’s a tender hand on my forehead, light as a feather, and I can feel tears building up behind my eyes where awful things build. But no one can see us over here on the side of the hill, and Francis is leaning over me, and I’ve been trying to act mature for him for a while now. If wild, wary Alfred can lay there and wait for the love to come, so can I.

 

I’ve got handfuls of grass, and I can feel my back teeth. There’s a kiss on my forehead, and I can feel him smiling, and I think maybe I took the sadness this time. He sounds steady when he tells me he’s proud, at least, and that’s all I can do.

 

Tears roll down into the grass, and the sharp little seedlings and feral little Alfred and I are all growing together in the sun.


	2. 2

I don’t understand. The letter’s here on the desk, sitting opened, and I don’t understand why he sent it back. I know it reached him: it’s got all the right stamps and approval signatures as all the rest, but it’s a mess. He ripped the envelope in his stupid clumsy hands, pulled my heartfelt letter and my little note out, and shoved his own letterhead back in like an oaf.

 

There’s a wet wind from the open window, a homely London smoke on the air. For half a second, I almost smell wildflowers—but condensation layers my reading glasses and I have to wipe them, and it’s gone.

 

He didn’t even bother to fold his return letter properly, the twit. He used scotch tape. Was I that offensive? All I tried to do was give him his name.

 

I loathe the way my heart pounds when the letter falls out onto the wood. But tea can soothe an upset stomach, and if that fails I have medicine in the cabinet. And if that fails, I have a handle of cinnamon whiskey in the bottom drawer and Francis on speed-dial.

 

I can at least read the thing, right? He took the time to write me back. The responsible thing to do is read it, and then throw it in the ash pit if it’s belligerent.

 

There’s a breath comes a little harder than the others, and I read. It says, _I don’t want it_ and _I didn’t read it_ and _you’re the only one who knows it now._ It says, _thanks for the warning, I threw it in the fire_ and _Are you not putting charms on me anymore_ and _I bet you didn’t know I knew._

 

It says, _I’ve been changing_ and _peace tastes like iron_ and _I’m tired of biting my tongue._ It says, _I know that you’ve seen us_ —Christ—and _thanks for your silence_ and _you’d tell me if something was wrong._

 

And then: _What’s the difference between hatred and love?_ _I need someone to tell me the truth._

 

‘ _This whiskey’s delicious’_?

 

A joke-- _liquid courage_.

 

_The first person I trusted was you._

 

I’ve crimped the page with my fingers, so I spread it over the desk and try to iron the words with a palm. Another wet wind, and smog—was that a wing?

 

_Art—_ how long has it been since he’s called me that? — _I need answers. These dark clouds are shifting and the winds here are humid and cold. You know what you’re doing_ and _I might be stupid_ and _does it always feel this good?_ _I’m not much of a dreamer_ and _I’m wandering blind here_ and _Francis filled Matt’s head with shit. Life’s not a story_ and _do you remember that old one, “Celtic Folklore for Kids”?_

 

The book is sitting on the shelf to my left, dusty and faded and grubby with neglect beside my novels. I press fingers to my mouth. Warm and guilty.

 

_The truth is, Artie, that I’m just a kid, and I don’t have to hate it, that’s just what it is. But I’m out here looking and I love this whole planet and I think I found something that sticks._

 

Me auld broken heart.

 

_He reminds me of Sundays at home by the fire and the way rain smells after a storm. He makes me feel wild and unique and clever. We can talk about nothing forever and ever and he tells me these stories and we lay there for hours and whatever I give him, Ivan gives me more._

 

_I know it’s not safe. I can feel my heart racing sometimes when he leans in too close. I won’t lose sight of the point or my job but Christ, Art, even you’re not alone._

_Do me a favor before you start calling and yell at the wall for a while. When you’re upset you’re boring. I don’t have time for your insults and the things you say to me are vile._

 

And then at the bottom, where my boy hadn’t bothered to sign any more than his first:

 

_Don’t tell me the middle. I don’t want to have it. Witchcraft is a powerful force._

 

_It’s not mine to know, anyway, that name._

_You gave it to me. It’s yours._


	3. Full Poem

_I’ve been changing and the stakes are higher_

_And I’m tired of biting my tongue._

_Matt can’t keep secrets._

_France is a canary._

_Peace tastes like iron, how could I have known?_

_I know what you’ll tell me: that it must be priceless_

_To think Ivan and I could get along._

_But I know that you’ve seen us,_

_So thanks for your silence._

_You’d tell me if something was wrong._

_What’s the difference between hatred and love?_

_I need someone to tell me the truth._

_This whiskey’s delicious._

_I drink good honey bourbon,_

_The kind that might make the old Devil nervous_

_And I’ve had some tonight,_

_So here’s my liquid courage:_

_The first person I trusted was you._

_Art, I need answers._

_These dark clouds are shifting_

_The winds here are humid and cold._

_You know what you’re doing, and I might be stupid, but_

_Does it always feel this good?_

_I’m not much of a dreamer._

_I’m wandering blind here._

_Francis filled Matt’s head with shit._

_Life’s not a story like you used to read me,_

_But do you remember that old one, “Celtic Folklore for Kids”?_

_The truth is, Artie, that I’m just a kid_

_And I don’t have to hate it, that’s just what it is._

_But I’m out here looking_

_And I love this whole planet_

_And I think I found something that sticks._

_He reminds me of Sundays at home by the fire_

_And the way rain smells after a storm._

_He makes me feel wild and unique and clever_

_We can talk about nothing forever and ever_

_And he tells me these stories_

_And we lay there for hours--_

_And whatever I give him,_

_Ivan gives me more._

_I know it’s not safe._

_I can feel my heart racing_

_Sometimes when he leans in too close._

_I won’t lose sight of the point or my job,_

_But Christ, Art, even you’re not alone._

_Do me a favor before you start calling and_

_Yell at the wall for a while._

_When you’re upset you’re boring._

_I don’t have time for your insults_

_And the things you say to me are vile._

_Don’t tell me the middle._

_I don’t want to have it._

_Witchcraft is a powerful force._

_It’s not mine to know, anyway, that name._

_You gave it to me. It’s yours._

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick little prompt. :) I'm not crazy about this writing style, but I tried!


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